Overall Quality 4.0 / 5.0 (entertaining, if light, read)
Gay Inclusive? Moderately – two secondary gay characters
Gay Positive? Very – both characters are well-rounded and important to the story

Okay, yeah, I have to admit – the plot is nothing new. Mysterious Monster Makes Mayhem; Sassy Star Saves the Day.

Specifically, the vampires are up to no good – a newly made vampire possessed by a demon begins wrecking havoc on the Mercy Thompson’s small community. It’s up to her, along with her werewolf allies and lone vampire friend, to figure out what’s going on and put a stop to it.

Once again, with textured characters and a involving alternate world, the author brings the story to life. It says a lot about the characters when they each have their own minor concerns that almost rival the main story for interest.

For example, Mercy’s gay werewolf cowboy friend (whew!) Warren returns. At one point, he’s wounded by the Big Bad of the story; and certain members of his pack – sensing weakness in a guy they never really cared for because he’s gay – try to take advantage to knock Warren from his position in the pack. It’s a relatively minor thread, but the relationships (good and bad) that exist between these characters possess a vitality that keeps me turning pages as fast as I can.

On the other hand, the fact that subplots nearly eclipse the main story doesn’t speak well of the main story. Considering Briggs’ inventiveness in her world-building, it’s a bit of a let-down to find the central plot to be relatively formulaic.

Nevertheless, Blood Bound was an immensely entertaining and enjoyable read with an exciting climax and meaty denouement (an improvement over the first book’s conclusion). A great read for a rainy Sunday afternoon.

——————-

See also my review of the first Mercy Thompson book, Moon Called.

Overall Quality 4.5 / 5.0 (fun, engaging story)
Gay Inclusive? Moderately – two secondary (but important) gay characters
Gay Positive? Very – both characters are well-rounded and fully fleshed-out

A supernatural (or urban fantasy) mystery adventure. Mercy Thompson is a sassy, free-spirited, and no-nonsense walker – that is, a shapeshifter who can transform easily from human to coyote, thanks to her Native American heritage. She lives in a world shared by werewolves, vampires, witches, and the fae (fairy spirits, ranging from gremlins to ogres to mythological monsters).

She has an uneasy but generally congenial relationship with the werewolf pack next door. In fact, she finds herself torn between the pack’s Alpha (Adam), and a former werewolf flame (Samuel). The romantic triangle is not resolved in this book – in fact, it’s not resolved until the end of Book 3.

The romance takes second place to the main story – a mysterious attack on Adam’s pack that leaves Adam on the verge of death and his (human) daughter Jesse kidnapped. Who would perpetrate such an attack? And why?

Briggs brings a lot of strengths to the book, including great characterizaton and a well-conceived alternate universe in which magic and supernatural creatures are real. The world-building (seeing how the supernatural elements fit into the “real” world) was just as interesting to me as the main plot. Briggs even manages to work a little social commentary into her world-building. The fae, for example, have recently been outed to the public, and most of them have been moved onto reservations.

Gay-wise, Adam’s pack includes a gay werewolf named Warren (who was a cowboy before he was turned), and his boyfriend Kyle. They are close friends of mercy’s, and both of them are sensible and helpful fellows with meaty parts in all three books.

A brief explanation why I included the negative stereotypes of heterosexism and gay without agency. The werewolf world is apparently even less accepting of gays than the normal world, and apparently Warren had a hard time of it until he was finally welcomed by Adam. Well, a harder time of it, because some of Adam’s other werewolves still do not deal well with him. It’s great that Adam is not prejudiced, and it paints his characters nicely, but it’s frustrating to see a gay man requiring a popular straight man’s “approval” to be accepted by the rest of the group.

I don’t weight these factors heavily, however. Yeah, I would have preferred if gayness were no big deal in the werewolf world. But even so, Warren and Kyle are two great characters, and Briggs (through protagonist Mercy) clearly cares about them. Major kudos to Briggs for writing them into the story, making them such great characters, and giving them some substantive scenes.

Story-wise, a minor complaint: the story weakens near the end. In part to increase tension, and in part to conclude the novel’s central mystery, the plot becomes convoluted and twisted as it winds to a conclusion. It’s a little hard to follow, and it throws the novel’s pacing off. Still, the author manages to end the book with a bang, and how’s this for a recommendation: I finished the book and immediately went out and bought the next two.

“Son of a Witch” is Gregory Maguire’s follow-up (more “companion book” than sequel) to “Wicked,” his phenomenally popular adaptation of “The Wizard of Oz” by L. Frank Baum from the point of view of the Wicked Witch of the West (AKA Elphaba). Here we follow the exploits of young Liir, who may or may not be the Witch’s son, as he tries to piece together his life following the death of his maybe-mother. His ostensible conflict is to find Nor, Liir’s friend who was kidnapped by the Wizard’s military; and to help an Elephant (yes, capitalized) Princess named Nastoya; but the central focus on the story is on Liir finding himself.

Here’s a good example of my hopes and expectations getting the better of me. Before I read “Son of a Witch,” I had heard that protagonist Liir was gay, so I was looking forward to a gay fantasy novel. I then read and read and read, all the while wondering, “Hey, where’s the gay?” When the gay finally showed up, and then went away again, the book clarified itself to be a fantasy novel with a bicurious protagonist who has a gay fling as a minor and brief subplot.

Maguire himself says:

“he has never felt obligated to write gay characters or situations simply because he himself is gay. ‘I’d always thought Liir had a gay side,’ Maguire says. ‘But it wasn’t going to show up just to titillate me. I could do that in the privacy of my own bedroom!’ In ‘Son of a Witch,’ Liir’s same-sex desire serves to sharpen his conflict with Oz’s religious regime. ‘This book was … more and more about the way governments can harness false piety in order to preserve their own power,’ Maguire explains. ‘And one of the things piety does best is to issue pronouncements about what constitutes moral behavior. Plus,’ he adds, ‘it was fun and I liked it and I found it romantic and sexy.’” (1).

Hm. Romantic and sexy? Try fleeting and unexplored.

On the plus side, the novel is populated by many interesting characters, and Liir’s journey is fast-paced and twisting as circumstances around him continually shift. The book also contains much thinly veiled political commentary, including a despotic leader called only the Apostle who may remind many readers of a certain contemporary world leader. The book even contains imagery of a military campaign that was partially inspired by the images from Abu Ghraib, according to Maguire.(2)

Liir makes for an unusual hero. Not only does he not know his own destiny, he seems to actively resist possessing one. The reader might see him from two perspectives. One, he is a young man struggling to understand and make a place for himself in the world with absolutely no one to support or guide him. On the other hand, Liir occasionally comes across as willfully naive, if not just plain dumb.

The novel’s single greatest flaw is the lack of a compelling central story. At several points the book seems to approach a narrative that readers can sink their teeth into, but most of the plot threads are like the depiction of Liir’s relationship with Trism: frustratingly brief and shallow. Meanwhile, the plot developments that sometimes seem twisty, will then meander into aimless narrative wandering.

Despite its flaws, I liked it. It was entertaining, like an unusually sophisticated fairy tale, but unfortunately some of the story elements (plot and character, notably) fail to captivate.

In all honesty, a big reason I read the book in the first place was that I had heard Liir was gay, and I wanted to read a fantasy novel with a gay main character. Unfortunately, the sole gay relationship is an all-too-brief and isolated affair, and Liir’s sexuality is far from clear cut. One senses the relationship with Trism was as much experimentation as genuine longing.

Check it out if you’re a fan of Maguire’s previous work or starved for gay content in fantasy fiction. I have to admit, the many allusions to Elphaba and the previous book have seriously tempted me to read “Wicked” next.

——————————–
(1) Regina Marler, “Back to Oz,” The Advocate, 27 September 2005, http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m1589/is_2005_Sept_27/ai_n15654046 (4 April 2008)

(2) Bob Minzesheimer, “‘Wicked’ author Gregory Maguire casts his spell,” USA Today, 12 October 2005, http://www.usatoday.com/life/books/news/2005-10-12-gregory-maguire-interview_x.htm (3 April 2008)

Propsero lives in a veritable garden of Eden with his daughter Freia, but inwardly he seethes: his brother Avril took the crown that Prospero felt is rightfully his. The story begins with Prospero planting the seeds of a rebellion to seize the throne. Into the story wanders a powerful but strange sorcerer named Dewar with secret connections to both sides.

Hm. I’m actually making the book sound more interesting than it really is. I found the plot uninventive and formulaic, with the only surprises (most notably Dewar’s connection to Prospero’s interests) seeming contrived. The language didn’t help: Prospero and a few other characters speak something that I can only call pseudo-Shakespearean, which interrupted the flow and pace of the story.

But the real failing of the novel are the characters. I simply don’t care about any of them, and I dislike more than a few. But even those I dislike don’t engender enough passion for me to, at minimum, admire them as villains. In fact, I wonder if the clear lack of a villain hobbled the story. I suppose the author intended Avril the Emperor as the central antagonist; but he plays a relatively small role, mostly off-stage. Prospero is certainly no more likeable, but Willey can’t seem to decide if she wants to reader to root for, or against, Prospero.

At any rate, lacking a worthy adversary, perhaps protagonist Dewar never really has a chance to shine. As it is, Dewar is lackluster. It doesn’t help that he makes a couple of morally questionable choices. Additionally, the book is filled with all kinds of subtle inconsistencies. For example, Prospero supposedly loves his daughter dearly, but he’s consistently mean and demeaning to her. Now, if the story had centered around Freia escaping the yoke of a sexist, manipulative, controlling father bent on world domination – that might have been interesting.

Additionally, the introduction of the book is jarring – it focuses on Prince Josquin as though he’s the protagonist, but then he turns out to be a very minor character. The tone of the book is also inconsistent. The story mostly reads like high fantasy, a happy-go-lucky tale (which matches Dewar’s happy-go-lucky attitude) in a Medieval-esque setting with magical elements.

But then the story would dip into very dark territory, most notably with a couple of violent assaults on women. Dark fantasy can make for compelling reading if handled well (see George R. R. Martin for evidence), but Willey doesn’t seem to have the stomach for it – the story would diverge into a darker area, usually offstage, only to return to the high fantasy tone. The darker elements make for an uncomfortable fit into an otherwise lighter story.

The ending is also underwhelming and certainly poorly foreshadowed: a whole lot of buildup for not much payoff.

The story does contain some gay content in the person of Prince Josquin. The story opens with the Prince being ensorcelled by a mysterious, handsome man, and it’s made perfectly clear that the Prince is quite fond of the company of handsome men. Ahem. But then it’s revealed later that his dalliance with the mysterious stranger was perfectly chaste. Go figure.

Unfortunately, Prince Josquin is not terrible impressive. He has no personal agency; he goes where and does what others tell him. But then, he doesn’t seem to have any particular goals of his own, nor the strength of will to pursue any. The narrative also implies that he’s irresponsibly promiscuous, as when his uncle warns him against “fraternizing” with the soldiers. It’s also stated fairly explicitly that he’s borderline incompetent, especially in manly endeavors like war. In fact, I see similarities in Josquin’s relationship with his family and Freia’s relationship with her father. If Freia and Jos had been built up as characters more, it might have been interesting to see those relationships play out in tandem.

Overall, I’m not impressed. But I am frustrated. Despite all my criticisms, I see a lot of potential in this story. A tighter narrative, more elaborately contoured characters, different emphases, and I think “A Sorcerer and a Gentleman” might have made a fascinating read.

Summary

Mélusine is a Paris-esque city, set in quasi-Medieval times. A magical creation, the Virtu’, helps protect the city and its central structure, the Mirador. But evil Malkar destroys the Virtu’ by using the power of one of the principal viewpoint characters, wizard Felix Harrowgate, against his will. Unfortunate, Malkar’s actions drive Felix Harrowgate insane; and no one believes that Felix didn’t willfully destroy the Virtu’ himself. Meanwhile, the second viewpoint character, Mildmay, a thief, lives among the poorer sections of the city, called the Lower City. Through Mildmay, the reader comes to better understand the culture and contradictions of Mélusine.

Clearly, “Mélusine” comprises the first act of a larger story. The novel traces one important storyline (Felix’s madness), but the central issues – Malkar, the destruction of the Virtu’, the ensuing chaos in Mélusine – await the next book(s) for resolution.

Quality

At its heart, “Mélusine” is a character study focusing on two divergent fellows with a secret connection: the wizard Felix Harrowgate and the thief Mildmay the Fox. Monette does an absolutely fantastic job of characterization. These characters breathe. Jasper Fforde has written a series of clever, tongue-in-cheek mystery novels which postulate that characters from books actually have a real existence in some kind of alternate dimension. Characters like Felix and Mildmay have enough breadth and depth I can imagine them in that vision, with lives outside the scope of this book.

The reader penetrates deeply into their histories and psyches; but the author doles out the information in a natural, organic fashion. It rarely feels that she’s “telling” about these guys as opposed to “showing.” Her lovely grasp of language benefits the character study: Felix and Mildmay, though they come from similar backgrounds originally, occupy different social strata at the time of the story. Monette paints that fact vividly, from the way they speak to the way they think. Felix and Mildmay are two of the most interesting fantasy characters I’ve met. I think it also says something that I enjoyed reading about Mildmay, the straight character, as much or more than Felix, the gay character. Usually it’s the other way around, because I tend to automatically identify more with the gay characters. Of course, that may have something to do with Felix being insane for most of the book; and Monette conveying the madness quite effectively.

Ah, but the beauty of her character study doesn’t stop there. The deep and well-presented characterizations provide a foundation for Monette to explore relationships in all their multitudinous forms. We encounter romances that sour, that end in tragedy, that go unrequited; rivalries exploited, intensified, resolved; attacks that are vicious, other times half-hearted, sometimes ignorant; aid rendered out of love, self-interest, or even revenge; familial relationships which bloom, twist, and fail. The most interesting, and unexpected, relationship exists between Felix and Mildmay.

Of course, the novel has its weaknesses. It’s truly dark fantasy as it not only incorporates dark themes but also portrays acute suffering at length. In fact, I had to take a break from reading the book after about 100 or 150 pages because the beginning is just so bleak. Poor Felix. But after I resumed reading, I realized the beginning is the worst as far as that goes.

I can’t say I’ve read too many novels where my favorite part was the middle third, but that’s the case with “Mélusine.” The beginning is important in introducing the characters and the conflict. But the middle really settles into some exciting and suspenseful action. The last third was tedious at points; much of that portion follows a journey across a country, and it gets repetitive and old. Monette’s meticulous attention to detail did not serve her so well here; she would have done better to edit this section so the action would have moved at a faster clip. The ending picks up, though, and I was satisfied with the conclusion. Although, as I’ve already indicated, not all the plot questions find resolution.

I encountered two more serious weaknesses, as well.

First, Felix and Mildmay get the lion’s share of the author’s attention and consideration. Secondary characters sometimes get the puppet treatment, i.e., they exist to serve the plot. As a result, they make sudden choices that do not make sense in terms of their history. For example, one of Felix’s romantic interests rejects him bitterly at a certain point; it’s an important plot development, but it doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t fit the romantic interest’s personality, or his relationship with Felix. Similarly, another character advocates for Felix, but then suddenly turns around and becomes an antagonist, and it doesn’t make any sense to me why. It’s just what the plot called for.

Second, a related complaint: the plotting itself is occasionally contrived. Again, the author really focuses on characters and relationships, with the plot taking second priority. Certain scenarios that arise hold a strong whiff of, “because that’s what needed to happen.” Even if it’s silly and/or out of place. The worst example comes towards the late middle section of the book, when the author needed to separate a group of characters from each other.

Gay Content

This book falls into a relatively new breed of genre fiction where major gay characters and content populate the novel without any indication of anti-gay sentiment. In other words, gay relationships are fully accepted components of the social milieu, with no adverse consequences to the characters who pursue them. Some novels in this category, like “Swordspoint” by Ellen Kushner, never even mention the word “gay.” “Mélusine” does distinguish between straight and “molly;” nevertheless, no one seems to care whether a person prefers opposite-sex or same-sex romantic partners.

I really enjoy that laid-back and easy-going approach to including gay characters, a far cry from the attitude that a story should only incorporate gay content if it’s somehow directly and explicitly relevant. That attitude, while sometimes understandable, inherently differentiates gay relationships from straight ones, which creates a slippery slope into value judgments about the relationships. At best, it creates a gay-as-issue-of-the-week situation. It’s also artificial; gay people don’t show up in real life only when expected or when “relevant.” We’re just a part of the social fabric of civilization, like it or not. It’s nice and refreshing to see that kind of portrayal in a fantasy novel; but it’s the fact that the author has apparently decided not to incorporate social and institutional homophobia into the representation that really makes a novel like “Mélusine” stand out in terms of gay positivity.

That helps compensate for the fact that the main gay character, Felix Harrowgate, has a really awful time during the novel. Ordinarily, a gay character being put through the ringer recalls one of the two fundamental stereotypes that play out with disproportionate frequency in media portrayals of gay people: if you’re gay, bad things are going to happen to you. But the way homosexuality fits into the framework of the world of “Mélusine,” it’s easy to recognize that the bad things that happen to Felix (and there are a lot of them) in no way relate to his being gay. That’s incidental; it’s just part of who he is. It’s also very important to note, lots of bad things happen to the other main character, who’s straight; so the author is not singling out the gay character for mistreatment.

I’m still including this novel in the category “The Victimized Gay.” Even though Felix is not victimized because he’s gay, it’s still another image of a disproportionately large pile that says, “Bad things happen to gay people; sucks to be gay!” But the way Monette handles homosexuality in the novel largely offsets this stereotype, so its impact on the Gay Positivity score is muted.

I can’t exactly call “Mélusine” a gay fantasy novel; and I really like that. It’s a mainstream, wide-release fantasy novel with major gay content that’s treated on parity with the heterosexual content. That alone is an innovation. Kudos to Sarah Monette and her publishers.

Overall

I definitely recommend this book. Despite its weaknesses, it’s a strong story with a fascinating array of characters. If you like dark fantasy, you’ll enjoy the book from the get-go. If not, steel yourself for a hardcore first 100 pages or so before the story really turns into an engaging action-adventure.

“Swordspoint” is one of my favorite gay romances, despite the fact that the emphasis falls on 17th-century-esque political plots rather than the romance. Richard St. Vier is a dashing and unparalleled swordsman, and Alec Campion is a sarcastic ex-university student who’s not quite what he seems. In some ways, their romance is hard to understand: they’re SO different. On the other hand, the author – who has an amazing grasp of detail – paints their relationship with a visceral sense of longing and belonging. One reviewer comments,

“Alec’s cold and cruel humor is just what Richard needs to get out of his emotionless funk and feel a little. Alec arouses his protective instincts, and Richard’s slow loss of control over his feelings is one of the things that make their relationship so compelling. Richard’s only anchor in his life is his swordsman codex – he will live and he will die by swordspoint – and following how Alec makes his simple black-and-white principles turn topsy-turvy is fun” (1).

It helps that their relationship is the only genuine one in the book; every other relationship turns around money, power, and self-interest. Their romance also enjoys a certain equitability that I really liked. Richard saves and helps Alex, constantly protecting him and at one point avenging his honor: “[a professional killer] who brutally mutilates the man who [violently mistreats] Alec before running home to make tormented love to Alec (all the while covered with blood) – how can this not be sexy?” (2). And in return, Alec saves and helps Richard when the tables are turned, and Richard finds himself facing the gallows in a world of nobles and politics that the poor swordsman doesn’t know how to navigate.

Richard makes for an engaging romantic hero. He’s a trained killer: he does something we would, in real life, find distasteful; yet he practices his craft under a fairly rigid moral code that fits acceptably into the social milieu in which he lives. In fact, he values his honor and reputation above his craft, tending to turn away potential jobs if they don’t fit his moral system. Besides, who wouldn’t want to have a lover who, after someone abuses us, goes out and “gets” them? Well, okay, that’d be kind of psycho in the real world; but in an escapist fairy tale? The entire romance novel industry turns on that very ideal!

Yet even the appeal and strength of the romantic relationship wouldn’t be enough to make this one of my favorite novels if Kushner didn’t have the writing goods to back it up: an intricate and compelling plot, deep but subtle characterization, and a fantastic attention to detail saturated with a wonderful command of the English language. I should emphasize, though, the romance takes second place to the main plot: the machinations of a certain noble aiming at (what else?) self-aggrandizement at the expense of his rivals. It’s wonderful fun watching the convoluted plot unfold step-by-step, and then watching it unravel through counter-machinations by other parties. Until the very end, the reader is never quite sure how things are going to turn. Add in the atmosphere and colorful characters, and we have a winner!

One caveat, though: most of the book details Machiavellian plotting, interspersed with exciting but relatively brief fight sequences. The result is a book that may not appeal to fantasy fans who prefer more adventuring and more action.

Regarding the positivity score, I see this book as an early forerunner of a relatively new breed of gay-interest genre fiction in which gay content figures largely (though perhaps not centrally) but is treated as completely morally neutral. The word “gay” or “homosexual” never even occurs in this book; neither does anti-gay attitude figure in anywhere. There seems to be an understanding, especially among the nobility, that one must still marry even if one’s desires lie with the same sex in order to beget children. But otherwise, no one makes an issue of same-sex interest at all, one way or the other. It’s just there.

At the same time, the book manages to avoid falling into stereotypical traps. It’s not that bad things don’t happen to the gay characters, but they’re offset by (1) it’s obvious the bad things don’t happen because the characters are gay (which is a necessary but not sufficient condition for a high gay positivity score), and (2) the bad things tend to be tempered. For example, if the book didn’t have the ending it does, I wouldn’t score it as being nearly so positive, because it would just be another book reinforcing a stereotype. Instead, the bad things fit in perfectly with the scope and nature of the book’s plot, helping to flesh out the characters and build tension, suspense, and excitement.

The 2003 edition includes three short stories involving Alec and Richard. “The Swordsman Whose Name Was Not Death” makes a very nice epilogue to the novel. “Red-Cloak” is quirky: very brief, a sort of swordsman’s ghost story. “The Death of the Duke” is odd and sad, and the weakest of the three stories.

————————————————

(1). Anonymous. “Swordspoint by Ellen Kusher,” (no date provided), http://www.mrsgiggles.com/books/kushner_swordspoint.html (accessed 29 July 2007).
(2) Ibid.

Three books comprise the Riddle-Master trilogy (”The Riddle-Master of Hed,” “The Heir of Sea and Fire,” and “Harpist in the Wind”), now available in a single volume. McKillip wrote this story in the late 1970s, and in the foreword she remarks on Tolkien’s “The Lord of the Rings” trilogy as inspiration. While I can see echoes of his influence, McKillip has crafted a completely original classic fantasy.

The story follows the journey of Morgon, the Prince of rural and peace-loving Hed. He bears an unusual destiny he would just as soon avoid. He’s a likeable character, but the story starts slowly. Early on, Morgon is lost at sea during an attempt on his life, and he finds himself suffering from amnesia in the care of Astrin Ymris, land-heir to the land of Ymris. The story picks up substantially once Astrin takes Morgon to Astrin’s brother, Hereu. At that point, the reader first learns about the story’s major villains, the shape-shifters, who attack Morgon. Ultimately, Morgon’s quest for answers about his destiny takes him to the High One, who doesn’t turn out to be what Morgon expects.

The second book (”The Heir of Sea and Fire”) follows the trail of a different character: Morgon’s betrothed, Princess Raederle of An. She decides she is not going to sit quietly while Morgon has gone missing for a year in the High One’s Erlenstar Mountain. But as Raederle makes her own journey to the Mountain to ask the High One about Morgon’s fate, she must answer the riddles about her own life, and face the legacy she has inherited as the heir of sea and fire. “The Heir of Sea and Fire” surpasses the first and last books: McKillip’s prose is especially evocative and thought-provoking, and Raederle is a fascinating character who’s sympathetic in some ways Morgon is not. This book revolves around mostly female characters, a nice change of pace from most fantasy literature.

The final book unites the Prince of Hed with Raederle. While the focus is clearly on Morgon, the Princess of An plays a pivotal role. They again visit the same interesting, unique, and carefully written lords of the realm that he and Raederle met in the first and second books respectively, as the realm draws inevitably closer to an apocalyptic confrontation between the shape-shifters, the land-rulers, the High One, and Morgon and Raederle. The trilogy ends with a smashing and surprising conclusion.

The villains of the story (including but not limited to the shape-shifters) are given relatively short-shrift in the writing, unusual in the fantasy genre. They appear only intermittently and briefly. But in hindsight, Morgon and Raederle struggle more within themselves than against their antagonists, certainly a truism of life most people tend not to notice.

McKillip has written a beautifully imaginative and intensely metaphoric tale of self-discovery. Her story recalls Paulo Coelho’s “The Alchemist” as parable. Her prose is fluid and poetic, frequently yielding to lengthy description and extended metaphors. Her emphasis on riddles gives her characters’ lives a depth that fantasy readers often try to experience vicariously. Note that McKillip’s riddles aren’t brain-teasers but rather the deeper existential questions of life, such as “what is my purpose?” My own life – like everyone’s – is also a journey of self-discovery, but somehow reframing the adventure as a quest to answer riddles bearing the weight of destiny gives the story layers of meaning that I often miss in my own more prosaic journey.

The heritage of magic and power that Morgon and Raederle inherit, struggle against, make peace with, and ultimately use also give the book a sense of wonder. Taken as metaphor, everyday folks tend to get lost in their own ordinariness (hence they seek out escapist works like this), but we all have far more power to shape our lives than most people acknowledge, much less exercise. McKillip has created a world that resonates powerfully with the reader who believes there is a kind of magic in the possibilities of life.

That said, the plot grew a bit incomprehensible and convoluted as the story progressed. Morgon’s and Raederle’s powers made less and less sense. Theme sometimes eclipsed plot and character as the paramount element of McKillip’s writing. If you are a fan of the gritty realism and detail of, say, George R.R. Martin, the story may not appeal to you so much. But if you love deeply textured characters struggling in a multilayered tale riddled (ahem) with well-planned surprises, I highly recommend the Riddle-Master trilogy.

Don’t expect any gay content. In truth, there are only two or three romantic relationships of any substance in the story. It’s possible that she could have incorporated some gay background characters in some casual way, but in all honesty, this kind of story makes relationships of any sort secondary. In fact, even the main romance between Morgon and Raederle stretched credulity a bit. Raederle became engaged to Morgon simply because her father promised to marry her to whomever answered a certain riddle. The book suggests they knew each other previously, but not very well, and I found myself questioning Raederle’s passion and commitment to Morgon. While a super-romance makes for good drama, asking “what’s her motivation here?” distracts from the story.

Rowling has earned her place alongside such fantasy luminaries as J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, and Ursula K. LeGuin. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows shines as the best book of her seven book series: it’s exciting, engaging, surprising, and cathartic. She deftly combines action, adventure, comedy, suspense, horror, and romance into a lovely page-turner. But even this book alone would not earn her praise alongside the likes of Tolkien, had she not written the preceding six books. Taken as a whole, Rowling has created an epic series that will likely survive the test of time as a classic of fantasy literature. The genius she shares with those other authors is not so much the exceptional writing skills (others have already commented on Rowling’s writing weaknesses, so I will not belabor the point) but rather her soaring imagination and fantastic instincts for pure storytelling. People love a good story, and it’s obvious Rowling loves to tell one, and has the imagination to back it up.

The story proceeds with a fast-paced rhythm, an ebb-and-flow of slower, more thoughtful and emotive narrative followed by supremely exciting, tense, suspenseful action. The action sequences are completely absorbing. The chapter concerning the Ministry of Magic, for example, literally left my heart racing. The plot is fairly linear, from which a predictable pattern emerges. But the back-story – about Harry’s parents, Snape, and Dumbledore’s background – which Rowling has doled out in carefully controlled bits over the last six books finally comes together in surprising, and sometimes poetic, ways. The ending, in particular, left me impressed with her ability to weave disparate threads of information together.

Ah, the ending. Of course I’m not going to spoil it. I will comment that the conclusion satisfies but for one caveat: I was never that impressed with Voldemort as villain. I always found him somewhat pedestrian. The Dark Lord of Mordor from Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, now that’s one scary dude. And the nemesis in Le Guin’s classic A Wizard of Earthsea (1968) simply dazzles with its poetry, unexpectedness, and inventiveness. But Voldemort has always struck me as a bit too silly to take seriously. But I suppose Rowling was stuck with him in the grown-up Deathly Hallows after having created him in the children’s Sorcerer’s Stone (the first book). The ending is pleasing enough in its action and resolution; but it didn’t blow me away, and I largely blame that on Voldemort having underwhelmed me as Harry’s nemesis.

And I thought the epilogue was just plain dumb. It was kind of like having a delicious dinner, followed by an unfortunate dessert that left a bitter aftertaste. Still, I can see what Rowling was trying to do, and don’t let a handful of pages stop you from reading this wonderful story.

It’s a joy to journey with Harry, Ron, and Hermione on their final adventure opposing Lord Voldemort, as they try to piece together Dumbledore’s thin clues from the last volume to figure out how to stop Lord Voldemort permanently, so that he cannot return again. Rowling does a great job of incorporating characters, objects, and minor plot threads from previous books into a single, comprehensive, and conclusive volume. Deathly Hallows is easily the darkest, most mature, and most sophisticated of the series, and yet moments of humor and the same whimsy that made the early books so magical and appealing nicely counterbalance the tragedy and terror. Indeed, the darkness of the story – and yes, terrible things happen to the characters in Deathly Hallows – emphasizes the lighter moments all the more.

As for gay content, there is none. Before I started reading, I was still hopeful. If she were going to include any gay content, this would be the book. Because it’s the last, she doesn’t need to worry about sales for the next book in the series, and perhaps in the most mature book of the series she’d finally be willing to tackle gay characters and themes. I didn’t expect much (well, actually, I didn’t expect anything, but still) more than a mention of a minor male character reaching in a moment of terror to hold hands with his boyfriend, or a secondary female character rushing to the defense of her girlfriend during a battle sequence. In other words, inclusion that’s casual, simple, and little more than a sentence long.

Rowlings announced to an audience at New York City’s Carnegie Hall on October 12, 2007 that Dumbledore is gay. Furthermore, she’s since added, “It is in the book. It’s very clear in the book” (1).

Rebecca Traister, writing for Salon.com, argues that “a close reading would reveal that The Deathly Hallowswas shot through with intimations about the headmaster’s sexuality”(2).

Some of the pertinent quotes:

• Early in the book, Dumbledore is accused of taking “an unnatural interest in [Harry] Potter” (27).
• Midway through, Harry finds a picture of Dumbledore, laughing with a “handsome companion,” who turns out to be a nasty magician named Gellert Grindelwald (353).
• “[Dumbledore and Grindelwald, as seventeen-year-olds] took to each other at once” (356).
• In Dumbledore’s own words: “Grindelwald. You cannot imagine how his ideas caught me, Harry, inflamed me” (716).

Even in hindsight, I disagree that these passages make clear that Dumbledore and Grindelwald were anything more than friends. The first quote from the book is literally a scurrilous accusation, not a statement of fact. I am thrilled – how could I not be? – that Rowling has posthumously outed Dumbledore. I’m just puzzled why she didn’t do it in the book itself. She says the idea of Dumbledore being gay came early, “probably before the first book was published” (3).

So why not include an exchange such as the one suggested by Michael Jensen from AfterElton.com:

Harry: Have you ever been in love, Headmaster?
Dumbeldore: I was once, Harry. I loved Gellert Grindewald [sic], but it wasn’t meant to be.(4)

Alas, I was doomed to disappointment. As I first started reading, I was forgiving of the exclusion. She starts the book off with a bang, and I respect that in a story that’s down-to-business and go-go-go, she simply wouldn’t have time to divert from the main story, even for a minor mention. But as I delved deeper, I realized Rowlings includes a lot of relationship activity in this book, ranging from shy advances to developing romances to an outright wedding to pregnancy. The exclusion of gay characters is all the more glaring in comparison. In thousands of pages and well over 300 named characters, not a single gay character or theme merits existence (again, I emphasize, in the books themselves). I will always love the stories – and thank you, Jo, for outing Dumbledore! – but it nevertheless irritates me that the Wizarding World apparently belongs solely to straight people and a single apparently closeted wizard.

I write more extensively on this topic in my essay “The Gay of Harry Potter: Subtext and Omission.”

—————————-

(1) Philip Marchand, “Dumbledore Gay From the Start?” TheStar.com, 24 October 2007, http://www.thestar.com/entertainment/Books/article/269817 (retrieved 15 May 2008).

(2) Rebecca Traister, “Dumbledore? Gay. J.K. Rowling? Chatty.” Salon.com, 23 October 2007, http://www.salon.com/books/feature/2007/10/23/dumbledore/ (retrieved 15 May 2008).

(3) Philip Marchand, “Dumbledore Gay From the Start?” TheStar.com, 24 October 2007, http://www.thestar.com/entertainment/Books/article/269817 (retrieved 15 May 2008).

(4) Michael Jensen, “So Dumbledore Is Gay. What Does It All Mean?” AfterElton.com, 22 October 2007, http://www.afterelton.com/blog/michaeljensen/dumbledore-gay-what-does-it-mean (retrieved 14 May 2008).

Summary

Set about ten years after “Magic’s Promise,” Vanyel is stretched thin as one of the few remaining Herald-Mages. The King’s failing health has also required Vanyel to serve as a stand-in for the monarch. However, a temporary solution to the King’s chronic pain is found in a young Bard trainee named Stefen, who has the peculiar magical talent of relieving pain with his music.

Stefen falls for Vanyel almost immediately and sets about trying to seduce the older man. Vanyel, although attracted to Stefen, resists the Bard’s advances, fearing that anyone with whom he’s close is at risk from his enemies.

Meanwhile, the threats against Valdemar are growing – to the south, in Karse, a Prophet-King has staged a coup and raised an army of anti-magic fanatics. And a mysterious threat from the north emerges in a serious assassination attempt against Vanyel’s parents – to which Vanyel falls prey.

Then this mysterious threat begins targeting the last remaining Herald-Mages.

Narrative

In some ways, this is the best book of the trilogy. In others, it’s the most disappointing.

I have stated in my reviews of “Magic’s Pawn” and “Magic’s Promise” that this trilogy is far more character-driven than plot-driven as a study into the life of Vanyel Ashekevron, the last Herald-Mage of Valdemar. That remains true in this novel as well.

Although it’s a fast-paced, action-filled adventure, the plot is relatively bare, linear, and undeveloped. It’s rather like a garden that hasn’t grown to maturity yet; there’s definitely plant life, but it lacks the verdant overgrowth of a garden cultivated over the years.

Concurrent with the bare plot comes a moral system that’s a little too pat. In this sense, the story is almost cartoonish. There’s very little moral ambiguity in the novel. We find interpersonal tensions over things like, will Vanyel’s parents accept him as a gay man, or will Vanyel take Stefen as a lover despite his concerns?

But the central conflicts are not only undercooked but overly simplified, and the confrontations between the good guys and bad guys are pretty much just that. A bad guy shows up, there’s a confrontation with the good guy, and then there’s the aftermath (as a rule in Lackey’s books, the good guys win, but usually at terrible personal cost).

Characters

I found Vanyel to be less likeable in this book than previous volumes. He was more arrogant, though not in an obvious “look at me, I’m so powerful” way. Rather, devotion to duty can grow into its own form of arrogance: “look, I’m needed to do all this good. I can’t think about you, or even my own needs, because I’m all about service to country and doing good in the world. See? Look at all the good I’m doing.” My belief is that everyone has his or her place in the scheme of things; and because we cannot predict the future, it is useless to second-guess the present. I grew weary of Vanyel’s moral superiority, soft-edged though it was, and of the assumption of a world that is clearly divided into unambiguous good and evil.

It’s dark fantasy, but without the plot or moral depth and breadth of a fantasy work like George R.R. Martin or Melanie Rawn. And then at the end, his character changes quite a bit – it’s quite ugly as he becomes obsessed with vengeance for the deaths of his fellow Herald-Mages, to the extent that he treats both Yfandes and Stefen with disregard and sometimes outright contempt.

Does it make sense within the context of the story that he might fall into that personality pattern. Absolutely! Should he have pursued Leareth, who has proven himself a terrible threat to the protectors of Valdemar, with all his resources? A resounding yes! In fact, it could have been a fascinating story thread. I’ve said repeatedly that this trilogy is more character study than action-adventure, and I would have enjoyed follow Vanyel’s mental and emotional healing from this obsessive, angry, raging, unhealthy mental state. It’s the why that matters – and why does matter in a moral universe. This thread could have turned into a powerful thematic subplot. But that’s not what happens. Vanyel does goes through a healing process wherein his obsession changes from lust for vengeance to pursuit of justice. Or so we’re told. This plot thread happens so quickly at the end of the book, it’s never really explored. It could have very interesting, but ultimately it was just disappointing.

It doesn’t help that Vanyel never has a good antagonist. He comes closest in this book because the reader senses Leareth’s presence in the story long before we ever meet him. But Leareth is still just a caricature. Because I’ve read more of Lackey’s books, I know there’s more to this character than meets the eye – he’s part of a story thread that spans virtually all her books – so there’s definitely the potential that more could have been made of him. As it is, he doesn’t even really need a name. She could have just called him Bad Guy. It should be noted that her description of him is fully and completely stereotypical for a fantasy villain. Nothing surprises or intrigues. Disappointing.

Stefen, by contrast, is one character where the simplicity worked in Lackey’s favor. She made a smart move with him, though: she gave him a backstory and then major page-time.

Overall

I recommend this book on the strength of its engaging characters and entertaining love story. Although it contains disappointing elements and retains many of the weaknesses of the previous two books – such as linear and undeveloped storylines, boring villains, etc – it also capitalizes on the strengths Lackey brings to the table, primarily fantastic characterization. It appears including a love story also makes a difference. That’s what “Magic’s Promise” lacked, and it’s definitely the least impressive of the three volumes, while Stefen’s and Vanyel’s burgeoning relationship was definitely the highlight of “Magic’s Price.”

The Gay

(** Major spoiler warning – The following section explains the gay positivity of the book, but necessarily contains information about the ending of the book. **)

Although the situation continues to improve over time, the preponderance of media images of gay folks continue to suggest if you’re gay then (1) you are bad, and/or (2) bad things will happen to you. The most serious forms of these clichés are the gay villain and the gay dies. I would add in the victimized gay as a close subset of the gay dies. All three of these serious negative images occur in this book.

The Victimized Gay

This gets much, much worse toward the end of the novel. In fact, what Vanyel suffers in the final portion of the book is just needlessly over the top. Particularly the sequence after Vanyel is kidnapped by brigands: I don’t understand why that was even included.

“The victimized gay” is the most serious and derogatory issue in this book. “The gay dies” and “the gay villain” are both there (and discussed below), but the book also contains elements which help to offset the negative impact of those cliches. Not so much with “the victimized gay.” From “Magic’s Pawn” until the last page of “Magic’s Price,” Vanyel has led a hard life filled with frustration, tragedy, and pain. And he’s put to the screws in an unparalleled way in “Magic’s Price.” Yes, it fits the context and nature of the story, but (1) did she have to go to such terrible lengths, and (2) the subliminal message is “gay life is bad; if you’re gay, bad things will happen to you.” If the fantasy genre produced more works where the gay characters led successful, productive, happy lives (it’d probably have to be in high fantasy or light fantasy sub-genres; no one leads successful, productive, happy lives in dark fantasy novels), I would not be so quick to point an accusing finger at books like these. But as it is, I find myself increasing exasperated at the cliché of the unhappy gay.

The Gay Dies

Vanyel sacrifices himself through a magical technique called Final Strike; he’s able to defeat the evil Leareth and Leareth’s army, but the assault takes his own life. This after a hard and unhappy life. Sure, this fits the context of the story and Lackey’s writing (she’s not kind to any of her heroes, and plenty of of the straight folks die tragically). It also makes for a great tear-jerker ending, and highlights the sheer heroism and self-sacrifice to which Vanyel has dedicated himself. This is a noble death, saving his country from otherwise certain doom. Plus, Vanyel returns as a ghost to continue guarding Valdemar; he wins a sort of eternal life. But “the gay dies” is still a stereotype, and it communicates on a visceral level that gay life does not end well. This kind of portrayal lacks balance (particularly in the fantasy genre); we find far more unhappy endings for gay folks than happily-ever-afters. And that’s really the crux of it. If we just look at the trilogy alone, it fits, and Lackey is not singling out the gay folks, which is notable and important. But I’m also considering Lackey’s works in relation to the canon of fantasy literature, and overall there’s a balance in the portrayals of straight folks lacking for gay characters. Recall that Tylendel also died, and at the very end of the book, Stefen joins Vanyel. By that point, Stefen is an old man, having lived a long life, and his death is relatively peaceful and easy. Nevertheless, every major gay character in her book thus dies.

The Gay Villain

It is never clearly established that Learest is gay, only intimated by his manner and approach toward Vanyel. He seems to want to seduce Vanyel to rule the world at his side, as if Darth Vader weren’t the Emperor’s protege but his lover. “The gay villain” is the most pernicious stereotype that occurs in the media because it contains the message “gay is bad.” Once again, it wouldn’t be as much of an issue if there were more balance in the portrayals, if we found as many good guys as bad guys. And again, just looking at The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy, the goodness of Vanyel more than offsets the badness of Leareth. But stepping back and considering a bigger picture, it becomes just one more image in an already mountainous pile of gay = bad.

The Gay Positive

Now, having said all that, I want to talk about the good stuff. I don’t want to paint of a picture of a book that’s so homophobic you might as well not bother. In fact, I wouldn’t call it homophobic at all but simply stereotypical and cliched in certain respects. The treatment is extremely sympathetic, and it’s important to note (as I did above) that everything that happens to and around Vanyel and Stefen fits the story’s context and Lackey’s style. That means she’s not singling out her gay characters for the bad stuff, and she’s done a wonderful thing simply by writing a mainstream, wide-release story that centers around a fantastic gay man.

The positive gay elements include:

• The Gay Hero. And I mean this literally: not only is Vanyel the protagonist, he’s also a heroic character, repeatedly working selflessly literally to save thousands of lives. I hesitate just shy of calling him a positive role model for gay readers because so much badness happens to and around him, but he is a character to look up to. (Full disclosure: when I first read these books as an adolescent, I totally wanted Vanyel to be my boyfriend.)
• The Powerful Gay. A common negative stereotype portrays gay men as weak, vulnerable, mincing little girly-men who easily fall prey to stronger characters. Not so with Vanyel. Not only is he an accomplished warrior and powerful Herald-Mage, he is the single most powerful Herald-Mage. His exploits are literally the stuff of legends. Bad guys beware!
• The Wise and/or Beneficial Gay. Vanyel helps people, even at great personal cost. In other words, not only is he not a villain, he’s not even indifferent or self-absorbed. Although he’s teased throughout all three books for being vain (based on his initial behavior in “Magic’s Pawn“), he is a very grounded character of substantial depth and selflessness. He’s the kind of friend you’d like to have in your life, always willing to lend his considerable powers and influence to help. And in fact, Vanyel’s not the only gay character who brings wisdom and helpfulness to the books. Moondance and Starwind, shamanistic mages from a Native American-esque society, offer great insight and helpfulness. They are powerful healers and teachers. Moondance, in particular, by recanting his personal tragedy when his family and village discovered he was gay, suggests that the tribulations gay people face also give them an opportunity to grow in compassion and wisdom. It’s like taking a negative and turning it into a positive, and it acknowledges that gay experience has the potential to benefit the world, even if the experience is tainted by negativity.
• Gay Pride / Self-Acceptance. Vanyel has made peace with himself by this book, and Stefen has no problem at all. He’s shaych and doesn’t care what anyone thinks. He’s going to sleep with, and form relationships with, whomever he damn pleases. Good for them!
• Gay Triumphs Over Anti-Gay. The major anti-gay force in the novels are Vanyel’s parents, who never quite accept him as a gay man. Even considering Vanyel’s power and heroism, they still, amazingly, feel shame about him. But Moondance helps them to see both the foolishness of that perspective as well as they pain they have caused Vanyel. Narratively, I think this subplot is a little too pat and easily resolved (after a lifetime of shame, his dad says, “Okay, I’m still not entirely uncomfortable with it, but I recognize that I have cause to be proud of you” and Vanyel is suddenly healed of all the negative emotion? Whatever). But thematically, it’s well-placed.
• Innovative Portrayal. It might sound strange for me to praise Lackey for writing an innovative portrayal after complaining at such length about the stereotypes she included. Nevertheless, I have to recognize that she wrote these books as a mainstream author at a time when homosexuality was virtually invisible in the fantasy genre, especially among wide-release works. I give her many kudos for writing these books to begin with.
• Gay Inclusive/Gay Friendly. On a related note to the “innovative portrayal,” the single most positive factor in the trilogy is the fact that it exists at all. I do not want to under-emphasize this. By this point (year 2007), simply including gay content is not sufficient to code it as positive. Hence all my criticisms about the gay content. Homosexuality is visible enough nowadays that simply including gay content isn’t an advance and doesn’t count as a positive. But Lackey didn’t write these books in 2007; she wrote them nearly 20 years ago, at a point in time when gay people were much more commonly defamed invisibility in the media. That is, ignoring gay people, pretending they don’t exist, or under-representing them, contributes to prejudice and negative stereotypes, and that was the case with the fantasy genre as a whole. Lackey broke through that curtain with a vengeance. Not only did she include gay characters, she made them the centerpiece of this trilogy! And further, she did not shy away from their relationships or identities as gay men. Wow. For all my criticisms, a big thank you to Mercedes Lackey!
• Gay Normative. Yes, yes, we find a lot of negative stereotypes and cliches in this book. A lot. And if she had written this book today, I’d be calling foul without belaboring the positive points. But as I mentioned above, she wrote this during a very different period. Lackey – a major fantasy author – initiated an important conversation by introducing a previously verboeten topic into the mainstream fantasy genre. The simple inclusion, and sympathetic treatment, introduced new readers to gay content and said, “Look, we all go through the same ups and downs. Is it really worth the prejudice?” Yeah, she contributed more negative images to the pile, which just feeds the visceral fire of prejudice and derogatory stereotypes, and that’s what I take issue with. But she also initiated the very conversation that might upend those stereotypes and preconceived ideas, and I commend her for that!